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“Would you like a flower crown?”
“Do you even know how to make a flower crown, Vernon?”
“Well, how hard can it be?”
-
Curse him and his inspired ideas.
It’s not like Iorveth should remember that they had this conversation years ago—Roche certainly didn’t, not until now.
Vernon isn’t even sure why the two of them had received an invite to the wedding in the first place, much less why they decided to attend. He had never been Dandelion’s good friend and until recently, he had no idea that Priscilla even existed. And Iorveth, well, Iorveth is officially dead.
(It helps that without the armour and the headscarf, and his hair long and well cared for, the general public doesn’t seem to make the connection.
He still makes elaborate braids that cover the scarred part of his face whenever he has to be confronted by a group of people he doesn’t know and trust.)
But here they are. At Dandelion’s and Priscilla’s wedding. And Vernon is currently holding the bride’s beautiful, ornate flower crown that she had just tossed into the crowd, the people around him expectantly holding their breath, awaiting for him to pick a very special lady whom he can crown it with.
He gives Iorveth a desperate look, and the fucking elf just smirks in a way that clearly conveys, You are on your own , then melts into the crowd, mouthing good luck . And Vernon stares at the flower crown in his hands for a very long time, unsure what to do with it, and finally just finds Ves and puts it on her head. (She seems both flustered and indignant.)
It’s not like he would have put the crown on Iorveth’s head in the first place—that would draw way too much attention to them. But the circumstances spark the memory of that long forgotten conversation. And it feels like a challenge .
-
Back at home, while Iorveth disappears into the woods—as he’s oft given to do after spending too much time in a crowd—Vernon decides to jump straight into action.
He picks some flowers from the stunningly beautiful garden Iorveth is cultivating in the back, (Vernon is surprised every day by each new soft side that he finds in the elf,) sits down on the grass and… Stares at the plants in his hands. How hard can it be? His own words mock him.
“Get a grip, Vernon.” He grouses. “It can’t be that complicated.” He sets to work.
As twilight approaches, he is still sitting on the grass, his ass is cold, and there’s little piles of bent, broken and knotted flower stalks and petals all around. Vernon sighs for the umpteenth time and hides his face in his hands.
“What have you done to the garden?” Iorveth’s voice is a mix of amusement and horror. It’s coming from close vicinity, the sly fox having managed to sneak in without Vernon’s notice. (As usual.)
Vernon’s head snaps up. The elf is, indeed, kneeling very close, examining one of the crushed flowers. “I’m making a flower crown.” Vernon explains gruffly.
“You’re- What?” Iorveth tosses his head back and laughs, and Vernon is mesmerised. Even after all these years, he doesn’t get to see it often. “I see you finally decided to take up the challenge.”
“So you remember.” Vernon notes in chagrin. “Look, I’m getting there. Just give me a day. Or a couple. Maybe a week.”
Iorveth chuckles. “Absolutely not. There won’t be any flowers left in a week.” Vernon must concede the point. He’s made quite a mess of the flowerbed. “Let me show you.”
The elf picks through Vernon’s piles of shame, then shakes his head and goes to pluck a few fresh flowers. “You have the finesse of a butcher, Vernon.”
Vernon winces at the jibe. He knows- he hopes Iorveth’s choice of words is unintentional. His past is still a sore point between them.
But he’s soon pulled away from any dark thoughts as the elf flops down in front of him, a whole damn bouquet of flowers in his hands. “ Now who’s ruining the garden.” He huffs, unable to keep from the childish dig, and Iorveth rolls his eye.
“Be quiet and let me work.”
Vernon watches in fascination as Iorveth’s nimble fingers thread the stalks together. He tries to follow the movements with his eyes, to figure out the sequence. But within minutes, Iorveth has completed a flower crown and is depositing it in Vernon’s lap, and he is no closer to decoding how to string the damn plants together.
“Well?” The elf raises his eyebrows. Vernon scratches the back of his neck.
“Could you- do that again?” His tone of voice is definitely not pleading. It is not. And he still thinks that Iorveth picked way too many flowers.
The elf nods with a knowing smile. “Making flower crowns,” he declares, “is a work of art that dh’oine hands are unsuited for.” His tone is light and teasing. “Once, I heard a proud dh’oine say, how hard can it be? ” Vernon winces at the obvious taunt. “And I immediately knew he had no idea what he was talking about.”
And that is the last straw. Vernon scoots a little so that he’s facing Iorveth’s left side, wraps his arms around the elf’s midsection and pulls him onto his lap, crushing the first work of art.
“Shut. Up.”
Iorveth gives an indignant yelp, immediately followed by a breathy chuckle. “You ruined it Vernon. You ruined the flower crown.”
“You’ll make another one.” Vernon tucks his face into the crook of Iorveth’s neck and breathes in contentedly. “With your skillful Aen Seidhe hands, I imagine it will take but mere moments.”
He feels Iorveth wriggle against him, and suddenly, his chaperon is unceremoniously lifted off his head and tossed to the side. “Hey!” He protests in indignation, leaning away and giving Iorveth a stern look, The elf is holding the smushed flower crown, Vernon notes. Iorveth smirks and places it on top of the man’s head.
“We should have you painted this way.”
“Only if you’re in the painting with me, wearing my hat.”
“ Never. ”
Vernon leans back into his previous position and soon, he feels a pair of lithe hands settle on the small of his back. They sit in contented silence for some time, then Iorveth removes his hands—Vernon makes a disgruntled noise at the loss of some body heat—and turns around to continue his work, still nestled against Vernon’s chest.
And sure enough, the next flower crown is ready in mere moments. “I can’t see how you’re doing it from this angle.” Vernon complains. Iorveth sighs in disappointment and tries to slide off his lap, but Vernon tightens his hands around him. “I changed my mind. I can see it just fine.”
Iorveth just shakes his head and continues working. Vernon can’t see his face, but he’s sure that the elf is smiling.
By dusk, there’s a neat little pile of flower crowns lying next to them and two more are adorning Iorveth’s hair. Vernon picks the last one up and adds it to the collection on top of the elf’s head.
“Let’s head back.” Iorveth says. “It’s growing chilly.”
Vernon nods, gets up, dusts himself off. Then he stretches until his back gives a satisfying pop. “Next time, maybe let's do this indoors. On cushions.” He looks at Iorveth, and a breath catches in his throat. The elf looks serene, and the three crowns sit crooked yet somehow elegant on his hair. “You’re beautiful.” He breathes.
Iorveth raises his hand to the hair partially covering the right side of his face in an unconscious gesture, but Vernon, long used to it, catches the elf’s palm mid-movement and brings it to his lips to place a gentle kiss on his knuckles. He brushes the hair off Iorveth’s face with the other hand. “You are. The most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen.”
Iorveth swallows hard—after all these years, he is still somehow unused to Vernon’s compliments—but he smiles softly, looking away. “Let’s go to bed.”